


The Writings On The Wall

by discodeaky65



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Acceptance, Alfred Pennyworth is a Saint, Alfred Pennyworth is the Best, Angst, Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Childhood Trauma, F/M, Fear, Movie 1: Batman Begins (2005), Movie: The Dark Knight (2008), Nolan verse, Poor Life Choices, Rejection, Reunion, Self-Acceptance, Slow Burn, Suspense, Unrequited Love, coming to terms, seriously Bruce needs a break
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:28:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21578326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/discodeaky65/pseuds/discodeaky65
Summary: The childhood Trauma of losing his Parents to a Nobody in an alleyway sends Bruce Wayne on a downward spiral even into his early adulthood.  After coming back to Gotham with a not-so-much rehabilitated mind but a reinvention of Justice in the form of Batman, he also has to reinvent himself as an alter-ego losing respect from loads of people around him including his childhood friends.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne/Original Female Character(s), Original Female Character/Original Male Character, Rachel Dawes/Harvey Dent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**THE WRITINGS ON THE WALL**

_Prologue_

Wayne Manor

Sometime in the early 80s

* * *

_"Rachel, let me see."_

  
_A Girl with two brunette plaits held something of worth in her two palms. Another Girl with watched her with disinterest, almost a hint of arrogance in her wide eyes. The Boy beside her scrambled to the Brunette Girl's side forgetting the blonde Girl by his side and focusing on the item hidden in the hands of his Friend._

  
_"Can l see?" He asked, eagerly as he approaches her tilting his head to at least try attempting to glimpse in the Girl's hands._

  
_In return, she smiled cheekily dashing past him and sprinting away. "Finders keepers. And l found it." She gloated, looking at the second Girl with a hint of self-satisfaction. The Second Girl forced a dramatic frown though neither unimpressed or impressed by whatever it was that sat securely in her joined palms._

  
_"ln my garden." The Boy bit back, growing agitated by everything going against his wants. He glances at the blonde Girl, confused to why she could be so calm and so unbothered by the treachery happening in front of their very eyes. The Brunette Girl looked at the blonde just as he were wondering what about her had to be worth staring, he took it as a sign of weakness and snatching the arrowhead from her grasp._

  
_"Finders keepers." He claimed proudly, running out of the Greenhouse followed by the two Girls who couldn't keep his fast pace._   
_"Bruce?" Called the Brunette, curiously tip-toeing around the bushes. She turned to the equally confused blonde, "Where do you think he went Chrissie?" She asked met with a shrug._

  
_It was seconds later the Boy's figure sped past them only to collapse through the ground and a huge crash sounded, both Girls watched in horror. The blonde racing to where he had fallen while the brunette went for help._

  
_"Bruce?"_

* * *

1997

* * *

Since his Parents' murder, Bruce Wayne had been haunted by the same nightmare playing in his dreams on loop. The flutters of batwings met with his own screams echoed through his ears and sometimes his dreams became so real that he truly thought he was on the floor of the cave. He would scream while the sweat from his forehead dribbled down his skin like thick raindrops. Sometimes he would wake the next morning to dried tears under the bags of his eyes, silently begging to be relieved. 

  
There were many sights he had witnessed that he wished he'd never, but alike to the eight year old Bruce that seemed to stand beside him like a Shadow of sorrow; he had no choice. 

  
"Will you be heading back to Princeton after the hearing, sir.." Alfred trails off watching the surviving Wayne with concern on his features. Whether it was not seeing him in so long or his run down appearance, Bruce couldn't have cared any less even if he tried. He wasn't going to apologise for not following his facial routine just to please his Butler who should've kept his opinions to himself. Not even Alfred's eyes brought any remorse on Bruce's part, "or can l persuade you to stay on for a day or two?"

  
He shook his head watching the scenery around him, it was going to be the last time he'd see this place. Too many seemed to disagree with him, Bruce hated being seen as wrong or judged for having his own perspective. He wasn't a conformer, he only went by his own set-up rules. He turned to Alfred with a hard-stare as he stated coldly, "l'm not heading back at all." His eyes cast on every shape that could be made out with every blink of his two eyes, every memory surfacing from being beaten to a pulp by the men around him or being dragged away to be punished for the most pathetic of reasons. Bruce truly missed the idea of holding a jurisdiction of his life, but something like a gut feeling stripped him of really grieving his loss of self-control. He didn't like himself, but there were many other things that he could juristic than his falling like a pin life.

  
"You don't like it there?" Asked his Butler with confusion, not that Bruce blamed him. Alfred's compassionate stare and slowly asked question made him grimace, he felt like a child and the flashbacks of eight year old Bruce asking for a sign from the skies returned in a monorail like speed. Alfred was a man who always had some sort of compassion for his Employers' Son, whatever made him stay as soon as Martha and Thomas were murdered truly baffled Bruce. Nobody was paying him to raise some Boy who was supposed to be groomed into taking over Wayne Enterprises like a heir to the throne- and yet Alfred seemed to still be around, for whatever reason at all, Bruce trusted the Butler.

  
"l like it fine." He said with no emotion, looking out to the endless horizon, "they just don't feel the same way."

  
Alfred's lips twitched and a small smile broke out on his aging features. "Tell me this Master Bruce; did they fail to get that attitude from you or is it to help you train?" 

  
Bruce couldn't help returning that fond smile, as Alfred was a very contagious smiler. The Butler always had a contagious attitude, at least before tragedy struck but even times afterwards Bruce's unemotional scowl would involuntarily lift into a small smile from one of Alfred's joke or just a simple couple words said to lighten the darkened mood.

  
.... 

  
"With all due respect, sir, Wayne Manor is your house." Alfred repeated the same sentence for at least the tenth time since they had arrived.  
Bruce scowls in return, grimacing at every piece of furniture, every photograph sitting freshly polished on the tables and dressers. He couldn't go on to describe how Wayne Manor looked like nothing more than some sad place almost like a Haunted House only instead of Ghosts pulling pranks and frightening him with their powers- Bruce had the memories flashing through his mind like the roll of film in his head. He could hear the Bats, their wings flapping forcefully and their squeaks as the descended towards the intruder. Bruce cringed internally. "No, Alfred, it's my father's house." He remarked with barely any emotion, forgetting what tense his Parents lived in. Alfred turned with a suitcase in his hand sending an incredulous stare, "Your father is dead Sir," the Butler said with a reminder and Bruce waved him off with a bruised hand feigning the act to care.

  
"This place is a mausoleum." Bruce said with disapproval, his scowl permanent as his eyes gave him trickery and a ghostly trio of children ran past him, Bruce could distinctly hear a voice telling the children to slow down. But he refused to be immersed in his past, or his present. "lf l have my way, l'll pull the damn thing down brick by brick." He probably sounded like a young child plotting to take over the world because of their dislike for their bedtime but Bruce's words held meaning. He truly hated the manor, everything about it was depressing or old and an in-your-face reminder of a past that was full of injustice and unfairness.  
Alfred snorts looking disapprovingly at Bruce. "This house, Master Wayne, has sheltered six generations of your family." The Butler snaps,   
Bruce frowned, angry in seconds. Who the hell did some outsider think he was telling Bruce how many generations lived and probably died inside the mausoleum? He shook his head and glared at Alfred who returned with a look Bruce disliked it was taunting and unbothered, Alfred was always quite difficult to nudge. "Why do you give a damn, Alfred?" He asked sharply almost hissing with his teeth bared, "lt's not your family."

  
Alfred chuckled, "l give a damn because a good man once made me responsible..." He picks up a photograph of a young Boy. "For what was most _precious_ to him in the whole world." 

  
Bruce scoffed, reminiscing back to the years when he was so much younger and riddled with guilt whenever anyone would point how precious Brucie was to Gotham City. The Guilt of being under a Butler who had been put under some Kid terrorized by home. But that behaviour soon became expected, and a very much predictable Alfred created an unspoken pact that the Unpredictable Bruce would never need to speak a word–not to him, at least.

  
Bruce was sulking again, but the Butler wasn’t blaming him for it; there seemed to be no way for Bruce and the Butler was close to losing hope in restoration, not even rehabilitation for the wretched thoughts. There had been times, before he ran off that Alfred had hope, when Bruce held a stable relationship with a Girl the Butler remembered fondly. She was what Bruce needed, he remembered thinking only to watch Bruce distance himself and disappear. Now everytime his ex-Fiancé questioned her wrongdoings in making him disappear or questioned his whereabouts, Alfred repeated the same thing; _"I'm sorry but he's gone and I think you must accept that without question."_

  
Even if Bruce stayed, the end found a very tumultuous Relationship, manifesting through secret love affairs and drawn-out absences that made Bruce and his words just meaningless things said without any intention of withstanding them. The Girl deserved so much better, she had just been too forgiving and far too naïve to see her worth.

  
Bruce belittled Alfred’s argument with a pronounced eye-roll, not able to understand the allure of his words, although he had been told a couple of times before his Father died by him. It was his thoughts and the value of life that settled his hatred of it though; he had never felt more guilty–more nauseous–than after he realised his likely failure in fulfilling a dying wish. He thumbed the corner of a photograph that was sitting on a covered mantle and looked around his Parents' home, peering into the floor length mirror that was leaned against the wall, near the dining room table which was littered with bills and letters. It was an awkward place for a mirror, but Bruce fluffed his straight bitter brown hair with dextrous digits, sighing. Shaking his head, he pulled the waistband of his jeans, squinting as the afternoon sun reflected over the mirror and shone into Bruce's honey hazel eyes, clarifying them.

  
The two of them sat in heavy silence, their hands folded upon their laps, waiting for the others to carry on the pruned conversation. They were becoming tired of such adult ramblings, and they missed the lightheartedness of being in their relationship when Bruce's eyes were profound and optimistic and glittering with stars and innocent youth. Alfred missed the gamble of it all; wondering if Bruce would become the CEO of Wayne Enterprises–or anything at all–was half the fun.   
It was odd, feeling so liberated but simultaneously nailed down by his feet. Bruce, and Alfred were used to the late-night calls and setting alarms for four, five in the morning to tell each other the recents in Gotham and discussing the Family Business future, although the sound was distorted and tinny, and Bruce was sure Alfred could tell how exhausted his Foster Son was by the tense tone of his voice which was usually so languid and delicate to their ears. And as much as Bruce would miss Alfred on tour, he was itching for the reinvention of his understanding in Justice. Knowing that he was perfect in everyone else's eyes was what made him want to get away. He didn't want to be liked just because of Martha and Thomas- he'd much rather be nationally despised than the sick suffocation of his Parents' reminders, their followers grovelling and following him with admiration.

  
Bruce felt contrite that he was counting down the days to Chill's hearing, which would likely be his very last term on the throne. Usually, he would dread the date; his fingers skipping forward over the boxes of the calendar, wanting nothing more than to sleep until ten and do whatever he pleased without questions asked. A plethora of their fights had been because of Bruce's ideals in life, but he also realized it was his dead Parents' who were making everything in his life possible but also paradoxically impossible. That he would be able to pay education and medical issues without trouble, but he would never have the deeply-rooted relationship with someone he cared for- not even Alfred. He couldn't sleep at night without lingering memories waking him in cold sweats.

  
Bruce felt himself scoff at Alfred's honest words. They were such a clichéd thing anyone could've said. He simply refused to comment, his parents had been dead longer than he'd been alive and that told him he had no right to care for them, though he felt strongly upon the Man who'd done this to them. He felt strongly over revenge, the temptation to take a life like Chill took two. One for the price of two, he thought, he'd still lost a parent that couldn't be funded by Chill dying- but the satisfaction of just watching him die and suffer followed by the shot of a gun made Bruce stony faced hiding his thoughts from Alfred who never seemed to believe in revenge, the idealistic thought that Karma would come to any person who had done something bad. Bruce believed fate and Justice was a self-building word. 

Or simply, Bruce wanted to see Joe Chill rot in hell. He was going to do the extreme just to see that happen.

  
"Miss Dawes has offered to drive you to the hearing." Alfred said with a sad smile, "She probably hopes to talk you out of going." He adds a little conflicted and Bruce could clearly see Alfred agreed with Dawes' perspective, he found it insulting, everyone looking at him as though he were just broken and vulnerable- unable to make decisions for himself. Maybe the past did haunt him, but why let something like that go? His Parents had been murcered and nobody seemed to care for all they had done for Gotham. People were either scum, or Bruce needed to let Injustice go. 

  
"Should l just bury the past out there with my parents, Alfred?"

  
Alfred shrugs, "l wouldn't presume to tell you what to do with your past, sir." He smiles softly, staring Bruce in the eye Alfred grew serious with a finger pointed to the Wayne. "Just know that there are those of us who care about what you do with your future."

  
"Haven't given up on me yet?" Bruce quipped, Alfred broke out in a grin.

  
"Never."   
... ... ...

"Alfred still keeps the condensed milk on the top shelf."

  
Rachel Dawes turned to the familiar sight that was her childhood friend, Bruce Wayne. Such a sorry sight standing wearing an expensive coat over smart looking clothes that looked expensive. Bruce wasn't smiling, Rachel noticed this but didn't comment. He was an unfamiliar, but familiar sight. Bruce was slightly taller than she last remembered, but at the same time he looked smaller and pathetic in a metaphorical way. 

  
Rachel smiled largely at his quip, most of it was the relief of seeing him alive and well a small bit found the inside quip rather funny and perhaps nostalgic. "Hasn't he noticed you're tall enough to reach now?" She asks waving a hand at the six foot man in front of her, Bruce smiled and chuckled. "Old habits die hard, l guess." She remarked.

  
Bruce's shoulders slouched and he waved his hands making gestures as he spoke, a trait of his when he was nervous. "Never used to stop us anyway." 

  
She nods. "No, it didn't."

  
Seeing Rachel after such a long time didn't bring much redemption. Usually seeing someone you grew up with, someone you were once close with brings a sense of joy. Bruce felt none of that, Rachel felt like some other face that should've stayed in the past. She'd grown up well keeping her signature brunette locks, Bruce couldn't think of a time when she ever grew it long. Her face was almost unrecognisable from what it used to be, older and womanly maybe even more defined and it shocked him seeing her.

  
"Chrissie was going to come," Rachel said causally, too casually. Bruce cocked his head to face Rachel, he had admittedly been eager to hear the name of the past. Anyone with a heart would want to hear their Fiancé's name, though Bruce probably didn't have a right to name her his Fiancé anymore. It had been a long time, maybe she had someone new to love her the way he couldn't. "But something came up," Rachel adds a little sadness in her voice accompanied by a glance at Bruce some attempt to see whether Bruce held any remorse. "We had dinner last night. She really misses this place."

His stomach began to hurl at the thought of her while his eyes involuntarily watered at the idea of never seeing her before disappearing again. 

"Yeah." Bruce acknowledges. It was a sadness that overtook him as he would've thought she would have kept coming and going, she held a Bond with Alfred not based on his helpfullness to her as a child when she needed help sewing or learning the ways of a Domestic. But Alfred wasn't just Bruce's shoulder to cry on, when her Father died and Bruce couldn't comfort her, Alfred spoiled her with Fatherly attention while he watched feeling unsure and baffled by her strong emotion. Explained by Alfred who reminded him at that time his Fiancé would've wanted a Father to walk her down the aisle and Father's day had been a couple days before the passing.

Hearing Christina's nickname admittedly caused his heart to jumpstart and a few beats quickened in his pulse. Now he wondered where was she now, what could she be doing? His intruded on hot grounds wondering if she was as beautiful to him as she was the day he left. Maybe she had a family now, she always talked about love like it were poetry.

Chrissie was different the more Bruce thought of her. What made him want to propose to her wasn't the initial thought but moreorless the thought that plagued him was why out of everyone in the world she gave him a second chance. The more he thought into it, the more past Bruce had felt leaving her would break her heart. Storms were unavoidable and storms came with drama and sometimes heartbreak. But Chrissie wasn't deserving of heartbreak, though he knew his vengeance for the people who brought him into the world would mean he lost something he loved dearly. Whenever he even thought of her, what he once had. He never thinks about the happy times, only the goodbyes;

  
_His distance was noticed by the Girl beside him, "Bruce you've gone quiet, what's wrong?" Chrissie asks, a delicate hand through reddening blonde hair that was long and beautifully healthy. Chrissie was always radiant, her skin was always glowing even under her foundation that hid her natural freckled face. She was many things that a handful of women couldn't be, elegant and beautiful._

  
_But Bruce had reached his limits of living in harmony, it felt borrowed and nearing the end of its trial date. He turns to her, the Girl that he grew up was still there somewhere and Bruce hated it. He hated how he knew everything about her and he hated that he genuinely cared about her, it always felt wrong and he felt he was doing something wrong by being with her._

_Weirdly, his Parents expected Rachel would be wearing a promise ring. His Father found Chrissie too different for his standards, she was creative, she could write a thousand poetic words in less than an hour and she could paint with watercolour. His Parents had an envisionment of Rachel who was being groomed into being academic and the grooming certainly worked seeing as she away at Law School. Chrissie had a degree in Psychology and a PhD in Psychology, High Qualifications in English, Maths and two in Art- so she was far from unacademic, people just had high expectations._

  
_A psychologist isn't a complicated thing to earn a degree in, because of that, people looked down on the Science Field as some fakery, some Degree people flashed around to look good. But Bruce never judged her for her degree as he remembered the efforts she made in earning her degree. Chrissie was an image of hope for Gotham, she showed genuine concern for people who cared little in return, she would say meaningful things to strangers in a crisis._

_Chrissie used to make Halloween masks for children to make money, she would give the children candy when they picked their masks up from her apartment and always they adored her. Bruce cared for that Chrissie, Bruce cared for the humble Psychologist who gave people what they didn't deserve. Bruce didn't have anything close to an open colourful understandment with Rachel who had the black and Whites._

  
_Chrissie's naturally long length lashes fluttered while she stared him square in the eyes, he didn't like it, her blue eyes stared through him and she may as well have taken a screwdriver and opened his head up to examine his skull. "Something's been wrong for a while now." She said running a hand through her hair and playing with a loose strand before throwing it over shoulder and returning her attention on Bruce who was empowered by fears. "Say it." She whispers sounding patient, she leaned closer and rested her open palm over Bruce's paling cheek, he resisted her touch and pulled away regretting the cold air that welcomed the warmth from her soft skin._

  
_Whatever he had to say, he knew Chrissie concluded before he could explain. She was always that way, she read his body language instead of his words, she still listened to him but she was like a cop who had seen a liar too often. Bruce felt himself sweat, a hand reaching for her head to be welcomed but cautiously. He was going to be leaving her and it stung, but choices in life often hurt much more. Chrissie had been a pleasure in his pain, while he must've been a pain for her pleasure. He resented himself for never telling her everything his true feelings, he'd never even said those sacred three words. They never felt right. When he did, they came with a but._

  
_"I've been thinking about it a lot. I think I love you."_

  
_Chrissie is immediate to wave his words off like he had mentioned a spontaneous holiday. "No Bruce, you don't. I've known for a while now." Hesitating she smiled sadly, "I just didn't want to admit it." Bruce watched her stand from the settee and walk over to the window overlooking Gotham, he stood and followed her a moment later his heart breaking at the sight of Chrissie's eyebrows furrowed fighting her emotions while her eyes watered and her mouth hung open. "It's funny, really." She said a little breathlessly, "This is what I always settle for. When it comes to you Bruce ."_

  
_Bruce hung his head low fighting the urge to wrap her in a hug, Chrissie turned to him with tears in her eyes and a redness in her cheeks. "I love you, but..."I love you, Chrissie, but I need space." "I love you, Chrissie, but I've met someone else." She breaks down, emotion taking over her like a spell. "And now finally you say, "I love you, without the buts, without excuses and you don't even mean it.." Her lips quivered, she takes a shaky breath putting a hand over her mouth. Bruce breaks at the sight. "And this is the hardest, because it's not even your fault, you don't choose feelings, you can't choose to love me like I love you and I hate that reality in fact I'm sorry."_

_Saying I love you in a false pretence somewhat felt more appealing to Bruce. The situation was less unwelcomed than, "Chrissie I love you but I'm leaving and I'm not sure about coming back." But her words caught him off guard for sure, why stay if she thought like that? She always settled for the lesser things and he hated it. He hated it when she suffered in silence, even when he was caught cheating, when he treated her like dirt afterward, she didn't fight back. She either got on with it suffering alone, or she simply accepted everything as it was. After his affair, he grew up shedding a few bitter tears Chrissie still comforted him and it should've been the other way round._

  
_The ring around her finger was pulled off and slammed in Bruce's palm, he watched her disappear like a ghost down a corridor. His heart heaved for air and his nervous system was terrified. He had a good life, but he didn't deserve it and Chrissie's tears, her words were enough to throw himself into garbage where he belonged. What irritated him about Chrissie was that she never shouted, she never raised her voice. For some reason she was so submissive that she apologised almost all of the time, even if he owned or committed the fault._

  
_He sprinted down the Manor stairs and watched her get into her car, Bruce took a deep breath and ran into her arms with his own extended taking her in for one last embrace, the first emotional goodbye without the gunshot._ Bruce had felt not only hateful, but he felt he had freed her from a lifetime with him. He had no doubt she wouldn't become corrupted like everyone else, whether it was her humbled nature or her proudness of owning that tiny and dingy apartment, he also had every belief she'd find someone better if not already and one day she could have what she wanted; a family. She would make a great Mother one day.

"I miss it too." Admitted Rachel. "But it's nothing without the people who made it what it was." She was saying it with bitternenss, Bruce shrugged feeling tension aimed at him. Rachel's icy stare was on him and Bruce didn't miss it.

  
"Now there's only Alfred." He jokes, weakly. Rachel sent an incredulous stare accompanied by knives in her two eyes. "l'm not staying, Rachel I-"

  
Rachel finished for him, "You're just back for the hearing." The venom seeped and settled in her words, Bruce wasn't a stranger to being hated but Rachel of all he refused to admit that her disapproval hurt like a prickle of a pin tip in his skin. He sent her a look of sadness, unable to confirm with words as that would send certainty into the air. "Bruce, l don't suppose there's any way to convince you not to come."

  
He frowns, "Someone at this proceeding should stand for my parents Rach."

  
"We all loved your parents, Bruce and what Chill did is unforgivable. Chrissie was so set on standing for them and I already talked her out of it."

  
Bruce laughed with an angry edge to his tone, "Then why is your boss letting him go?" He asks with the flare of a nostril, his tone sharp enough to cut lettuce. Rachel was hardly intimidated by Bruce's anger. "You also said something came up, now you're saying you talked my ex-Fiancé out of doing what she always did best- putting herself in my shoes, then again, she was always loyal to just about anyone she knew." More of a self note to himself, another thing he missed about her. 

"ln prison, he shared a cell with Carmine Falcone." She explained holding her elbows, Bruce listened intently with flinty eyes, his breath noisy. "He learned things, and he will testify in exchange for early parole." She was playing with her sleeves flexing her fingers. "And if you'll remember, Chrissie has a job, and a life that surprisingly for you to hear from my perspective, shouldn't include you. She doesn't need you, or to fight a battle that was long won by corruption Bruce."

  
Bruce softened temporarily, sighing sadly, "Rachel, this man killed my parents. l cannot let that pass." His eyes became more desperate. Rachel didn't understand why he was so desperate, but then again, her parents hadn't been murdered even so, she watched Bruce with a hint of disgust. For his actions in the past and the fact he did his Parents more shame than good. But it was his life and she cared little for his actions.

  
"And l need you to understand that, please." She suddenly wished she hadn't told his Ex to stay well away, she had more understanding and patience from working in Arkham. She felt bad, not for Bruce since he looked to be a lost cause. Chrissie was a fragile Girl and she never got any explanation from Bruce, nothing. Only some letter that Rachel was certain Alfred had written to spare her the heartbreak of Bruce's sudden deployment. It was just over two years since he left her and Chrissie never truly got over it. According to the ex-Fiancé of Bruce Wayne, he finally said 'I love you' and she in return left him, feeling a different feeling altogether.

How could Rachel forget? She turned to her apartment heartbroken and stayed the night deciding to make things right with him only to find out from Alfred. Bruce had disappeared.

  
Rachel didn't dislike her Childhood friend, but she wished he was man enough to give Chrissie his explanation. Alfred could only say so much, he could also say so much until his loyalty to Bruce was proven- lying to protect Bruce and his friends. 

"Okay."


	2. The assasination of a thug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Bruce's intention to kill Chill with a gun comes to light, everyone turns their backs to them ending in a conflict between Bruce and Falcone.

**THE WRITINGS ON THE WALL**

_Chapter One: The assasination of a thug_

_Gotham City_

_1997_

* * *

"The depression hit working people, like Mr. Chill, hardest of all."

  
Bruce could feel his insides turn, watching the desolate courtroom with a building tension coiling in the pit of his stomach. "His crime was appalling, yes, but it was motivated not by greed, but by desperation." His nose wrinkled at the same excuse every Lawyer, every defender used for a Criminal or a thug, _desperation_ , Bruce thought clenching the muscles in his jaw. _Desperation_ , might it have been a last resort for Chill, Bruce wondered by the words spoken between people around him. The deeper he thought about it, the angrier he became. No! Desperation was one thing, but killing two people was a completely different thing altogether. 

  
"Given the 14 years served, as well as his extraordinary level of cooperation with one of this office's most important investigations." Bruce hung his head low and swiftly shook his head to nobody in particular, people were nodding while looking at Chill with some sort of admiration and the sight of it made him sick to his stomach. For people claiming Thomas and Martha were outstanding idealists, they were damn right traitors by admiring a thug who ended their lives. "We strongly endorse his petition for early release."

  
In his heart, Bruce knew had his parents survived and sat in this courtroom today, his Father would've been forgiving. His Father always forgave, he taught Bruce to do the same but staring at a pathetic Chill slumped in his stance like a young Boy who had been caught stealing, Bruce frowned. He was nothing but worthless, an inadequate mess who should've had murderer stained on his filthy forehead. A little farfetched, but then again, there was a gun in his inside pocket that he intended to use as a way in gaining what he felt was rightfully his.

  
_Justice._

  
"Mr. Chill?"

  
Chill staggers to the stand carrying a façade that made him look somewhat troubled, he looked merciful as he stood clearly a raspy that sounded different from the same voice that demanded money and Martha's pearls all of those years ago. The jumpstart in Bruce's pulse accelerated in an anger that flushed his cheeks a light red. The sight of him, Bruce played with the cold of the pistol in the palm of his hand sitting inside his coat. 

  
"Your Honor..."

  
Bruce let it go, he lets go with the intention to listen to the story that'll make the front page, he could see by Chill's dramatic expression he was listening to a sob story, just some silly little whine about how he hasn't stopped feeling sorry for himself. If Bruce were asked to make a stand, he could easily outact with stories of wetting the bed, cuddling the invisible air because his Mommy and Daddy weren't there. All of his milestones that his Mother and Father should've been to were meaningless events where Alfred would try to lighten everything up even though he seemed emotional. Nobody had the ability to resurrect and Bruce wasn't angry for it, but he was enraged that there was a display of such human ignorance. You take a life, you should pay with yours.

  
"Not a day goes by that l don't wish l could take back what l did."

  
_Not a day goes by that Bruce wishes he could've had his parents at his side._

  
"Sure, l was desperate, like a lot of people back then but that don't change what l did."

  
Bruce held down a scoff as he shook his head with disapproval, repeating Chill's words in his head, it doesn't change the fact that you killed my parents, he voiced inside with red in his sight, nobody told you to pull a trigger and nobody told you to kill anyone. It was like a contradiction really, Chill was stating the same things a scolded child would, the same 'it doesn't change what I did.' How many children use that to win back their parents respect for disobedience or hurting someone, talking back. It was all rehearsed, his words meant absolutely nothing to the Boy who had lost his parents, Chill took years of love away, he took away two people that mattered most to him. Then to stab further into Bruce's soul, there was Chrissie, Chill took away Bruce's sense of closeness. If he hadn't killed his parents, maybe he would've been able to love Chrissie. Three things Chill took away, two with immediate effect and one that eight year old Bruce would never experience or even predict until just over a decade later.

  
"l gather there is a member of the Wayne family here today."

  
Bruce stands, "has he got anything to say?" People around him ask, eyes cast on him like he was something significant. If he were mediocre and penniless as most of them, he wouldn't even have the pleasure of speaking out. They wouldn't even look at him, because money and publicity were all people cared for. Suddenly he didn't feel like giving the benefit of his words, standing still ignoring every beady eye that waited for him to say something, Rachel was watching him too, but he knew she was only watching for the moment she predicts he dramatizes with a sadder tale than Chill's.

  
He stared at Chill right in the eye, Chill refused to return that stare not that Bruce cared sending the dirtiest glare he ever had with cold and bitter eyes like sharp ice, he swiftly turns and begins his leave, listening to the heels of his expensive shoes hitting the courtroom floor and echoing loudly but repetitionally.

  
He felt a pair of eyes boring through him, he stares back with a glare immediately softening.

  
Those eyes were familiar, for the second time that day Bruce's heart accelerated stopping as he squinted his stare in order to confirm the figure was real. 

  
_Chrissie_

  
She was sending a stare of disbelief, the shock of seeing him was all too evident. For some reason Bruce had to drag himself away because he felt his composure cracking, his strength tearing itself apart from such a plot twist. Her appearance was so unexpected, but certainly not unwelcomed. 

  
Her bell of golden hair was sitting just under her shoulders, one side tucked behind her left ear. As he expected, she looked beautiful, like a porcelain doll sitting on the toy shop shelf waiting to be cared for. All of those regrets came crashing down forcefully, his palm sweat all over the pistol that he played with in the contents of his pocket. Her blue eyes were enlightened by the sunshine through the windows, it gave her an angelic appearance with an ethereal glow through her golden blonde hair. She almost looked too innocent to be sitting inside a dark courtroom like this, she looked out of place with her ethereal appearance while everyone else looked like comic book villains, dark eyes and evil expressions. 

* * *

  
"Joe! Hey, Joe!"

  
People surrounded Bruce who was being manuveared by an agitated Rachel. Shoving past angry reporters and toffee nosed gossipers, a shrill gunshot flew threw the air and hundreds of onlookers turned to the place where the gunshot started from. Bruce couldn't see the commotion, he was shoved away by Rachel involuntarily.

  
"Come on, Bruce. We don't need to see this."

  
Bruce shook his head and ignored his Friend's restriction, "l do." He insisted watching as Joe Chill's dead body was lifted away by a handful of Officers. It was all in slow motion, not that Bruce cared that much. The act of receiving the revenge and vengeance for the mess Chill created was crushed by what was likely another corrupted nobody, probably something to do with this Falcone that seemed to be the talk of Gotham. 

  
Bruce knew Chill wasn't the invented man his Lawyers and Defenders made him out to be, some hunch inside him twisted at the sight of him and seeing him dead by someone else brought on all theories like perhaps Chill sold Falcone out to the cops, maybe Chill was one of those criminal informers. Just a troublemaker in the Law world as well as the criminal underworld. Bruce stuffed the gun somewhere far in his pockets, frowning scornfully as he pushed through the crowd feeling overwhelmed. His way of snaking out of Prison was to exchange secrets for earlier parole, a cowardly act that deserved to be frowned upon. Just a coward with a gun.

  
"The DA couldn't understand why Judge Faden insisted on making the hearing public." Rachel explained with her grip on the steering wheel, driving to the manor in an uncomforting silence. "Falcone paid him off to get Chill out in the open." She added with more theory than truth though it was the most logical. There was no knowing, however Bruce felt glad as Chill got exactly what he deserved even if it wasn't his bullet that caused the fatality; there was still a sick smugness of his Parents' killer having the same twisted fate as the two he killed.

  
After a long silence, Bruce breathed in and stared endlessly out of the car window, "Maybe l should thank them." The bitterness in his voice became evident, Bruce's eyes became emotionless as he turned to Rachel, her reaction was quite the opposite of what he expected. He said it with a shrug, squirming in his seat while looking away from Rachel.

  
Her eyes were flinty and her mouth sat wide open, "You don't mean that." She hissed, Bruce glared at her.

  
"What if l do, Rachel?" He asks, rhetorically, "My parents deserved justice."

  
They took a turn driving down a familiar road, "You're not talking about justice. You're talking about revenge." Her words treaded on a personal boundary, her words stung like a jellyfish and he was getting angry with Rachel's lack of empathy.

  
"Sometimes, they're the same." He defended, it had to be. Why should Chill get to live the rest of his life when his Parents were long dead because of him? His question seemed to be ignored as Rachel obviously defended the bad Guy. Did she even care about the people who gave her Mother a job, the people who put food on her table with a generous pay? 

  
"No, they're never the same. Justice is about harmony. Revenge is about you making yourself feel better."

  
Bruce snorts at this, he wasn't just making himself feel better, he was releasing the world of another killer something people forgot to label Chill. It made him incredibly angry that people were just so ignorant to crime, ignoring people who killed for thrills while contradicting those who had an ideal to save the broken system. "lt's why we have an impartial system."

  
"Your system is broken." 

  
The car skidded to a halt, followed by an angry gaze from a seething Rachel Dawes.

  
"You care about justice?" She asked waving to the desolate and lonely place, the Narrows. "Look beyond your own pain, Bruce." And a matter of fact, "This city is rotting. They talk about the depression as if it's history. lt's not." 

  
She glances around every dark corner, "Things are worse than ever here. Falcone floods our streets with crime and drugs preying on the desperate, creating new Joe Chills every day." Rachel's eyes softened and her scowl disappeared, she put a hand on Bruce's shoulder with a sadness radiating in her sparkling eyes. "Falcone may not have killed your parents, Bruce, but Falcone's the real killer." The bitterness returns and Rachel frowns with dark eyes, animalistic from anger. 

"You wanna thank him for that? Here you go. We all know where to find him." She said in a mock tone, antagonizingly, Bruce's top lip turns to an angry quiver making Rachel scoff in mock sympathy. "As long as he keeps the bad people rich and the good people scared, no one'll touch him."

  
He gripped the gun in his pocket and pulled it out, the outlash it caused from Rachel who gasped in shocked horror and a hand clamped over her mouth eliciting a strong gasp from her voice. What came next was unexpected, unpredictable. Bruce rubbed his cheek where Rachel's hand had struck. She shook her head at him indicating she wanted him away from him, Bruce sighed and pulled the car door handle. The truth stings, but Rachel's stare was enough to freeze him with its coldness. 

  
He knew he deserved it, but Rachel was one of his best friends and had been since he was a child. His list of three things Chill took became four and staring at Rachel who didn't have the heart to return the stare sizzled his emotions in steaming hot anger and grief. He staggered farther into an endless abyss of question and hopelessness. But as he did, Bruce couldn't find anything worth blaming Chill. In the end, Chill killed his parents, the more he thought of it, Chill never took Rachel- he did that himself. While Chrissie was long gone because he couldn't hold her down like a normal man would've. He did that himself, Chill didn't take his Fiancé away, Bruce drove her away. 

  
While Falcone possibly smiled in the sunlight at the chaos, Bruce felt himself quiver in the cold. He felt he had no purpose as a revenge driven Boy. 

  
"Bruce?" 

  
His head cocked in direction to the voice that said his name as he heard it many times before. Bruce was met with his Ex-Fiancé herself and like dopamine, his anger disappeared for a moment. Chrissie looked confused, what business had a Richman got in the Narrows where the scum of the earth lived. Bruce found himself equally as curious, what had a Girl like Chrissie have in a place where thugs wouldn't hesitate to hang her on a pole for a sickening joy. 

  
"Chrissie, what?" Bruce stumbled seeing her, the shock of seeing someone he neither wanted to stay or leave the past taking its toll on him. Chrissie's eyes narrowed at the silver in his closed right fist and Bruce slapped himself mentally, as soon as she caught sight of the gun he really will have lost her.   
His freehand gripped her upperarm and he pulled her close, "what are you doing in a place like this?" 

  
Chrissie frowns, Bruce's eagerness to intervene in her business getting no chance to speak about it. Bruce pointed to a small bar, as scummy as it looked he glances at Chrissie. 

"Do you want to talk inside?" he asked, hand on the small of her back holding the door open for her and urging her in. The wind was picking up hugely and he was feeling cold in his jacket, he could only imagine how she was doing in her simple jeans and t-shirt. She nodded and he escorted her into the bar which was currently close to abandoned, people heading in and out consistently as the evening sunset was far too beautiful to be ignored. They sat themselves at a small table where the constant evening sunshine shone brightly upon then creating a warmth to his flesh, and he brought her a mug of steaming tea while he sips on scotch.

  
"Thank you," she said softly, taking the cup from him. He seated himself across from her and watched her stir her hot tea half-mindedly. He took off his jacket, biting his lips. The silence was killing him. She set down her spoon with a clatter and sighed heavily. "Bruce," she said, putting her elbows on the table and putting her forehead in her hands, "I'm sorry about the trial it couldn't have been easy-"

  
He shook his head, cutting her off. "He obviously crossed the wrong road-" He stopped speaking as he watched a waitress pass by, giving them an odd look. "In the end, he got what he deserved."

  
Chrissie was silent and Bruce watched her intently. He desperately craved to know what she was thinking behind those bright and indescribable, blue eyes. "It's not that," she said, eyes sunken as though she had been to a million funerals and back. Bruce took it as a bad sign, her bottom lip pouted and eyes on the table below. "I actually thought you were the one who...."

  
His heart sank. But he also anticipated this would happen and he did nothing to save himself from losing his dignity in front of someone he used to be desperate to impress. He felt he had no right to be offended. He was going to do it anyway, she wasn't wrong, the silver in his pocket even proved it. She was like a slender glass of sugar, sweet, eyes that sparkled but greatly addictive. Paralysing him because he couldn't drink enough of her in. But different to him because he was sour and bitter.

  
"And what impression would that be?" he asked coldly.

  
She glared at him upon hearing his unforgiving tone disliking his sudden change in attitude hugely, she had faltered trying to find the right words in order to avoid a brewing storm. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said-" 

  
"And yet it still met my ears?" Brian scoffed, never had he heard that one before. "Do you know what it's like having everything taken away, or the last sense of pride taken from you?" 

  
"Don't be so harsh," she mumbled, pushing her drink away. "I believe you have the impression that life's hard because the man who killed your parents suffered the same end as your parents did!" Bruce was fuming by now. She was in no state aware of what was happening, you were aware and you knew she wasn't. "A good man doesn't fall to his knees, Bruce. Nor does he debate on his choices and his acceptance of others' destruction."

  
"l'm not one of your good people, Christina," Bruce said, avoiding her eyes because he was truthfully about to tell a truth he didn't think he'd tell her, "All these years, l wanted to kill him." He said in a low tone in order to keep the people around them from putting his words in a gossip magazine, eyes locked on her. He sat the gun onto the table surface. "Now I can't." 

  
Chrissie's eyes widened, reality hit her like a train. A year or two ago, she would've married him. The gun that sparkled in the light caused panic to shiver through her delicate body. The Bruce sitting in front of her brought intimidation and fear in his trail. This wasn't the Bruce who used to cling to her when he woke crying after a nightmare or the Bruce who used to gift her Mother her favourite Flowers everytime she visited. 

  
A little sympathy sat in the palm of Chrissie's hand, a tragedy Bruce never voiced resulted in the turning of gears in his mind. Bruce was powerless, he lacked mental strength. In Bruce's action, she sensed a feeling of guilt radiating from him whether it was the beaten down expression or the darkness in his eyes. This guilt had fired into actions that were larger than his thinking ability. As a dedicated Psychologist working with criminals who became rehabilitated and certainly gave back to the community, Chrissie had principles. Believing everyone in the world could be changed and redirected to the good path.

  
"Bruce, if you kill..." She trails off looking at the two hands shaking and she grabbed them ignoring her fear of Bruce's unfinished action, pushing the gun away. "Even if you killed him yourself, that doesn't lower the population of killers. You're not saving anyone, you're not even acting humanly. Taking a life puts the dirt of the life you took, on your shoulders." 

  
_The sense of purpose_ , Chrissie called her morals. Working and listening with and to people who committed despicable things, people who had been corrupted and turned darker, her incorruptible nature and policy of changing a life were the sole of what she did as a job. Maybe the personal boundary with Bruce made the moment insufferable, she couldn't treat someone she grew up with, almost married like one of the patients at Arkham- it was impossible to understand him like someone she meets and has a singular conversation with. She'd held the deepest of conversations with him, she'd seen every patch of skin and she'd kissed his lips over a hundred times. It disillusioned her feelings for him. 

  
"I'll never be like you Chrissie, I can't give chances, I'm not a doormat like you." Before he could cover his mouth or even muster an apology body going into shock as he replayed his words after saying them, She stood up, clearly upset tears and everything falling down her freckled cheeks. She had nothing to say to, unable to say much in her defence. Her expression said she was agreeing with his words and Bruce wished she wasn't. He wished she'd slap him, hard across the face because quite frankly his Mother or his Father would've strangled him and he deserved just that treatment for being a Pig to a woman.

  
"So you want to be like Falcone who flashes his pistol like a new watch? You want to shoot anyone because it's your idea of justice? Targeting young women and cornering men in the streets?" Chrissie's cheeks filtered a blush pink in her anger, she shook her head almost as if she were in a huge cloud of disbelief. Chrissie's throat strained holding back emotions that fought to get out, wiping away angry tears with the palm of her hand, her wrist brushing against her damp cheeks. In public no less, she was humiliated. People watched them, indulged in their personal drama. Women glaring and older men nodding in agreement, gang members gazed at the pretty Girl while Thugs plotted their next scheme. "Your Father would be _sickened_ by your attitude, I hope you have a pleasant week because I'm sure this will be the last time we will see each other." He was so sure he heard her sob as she grew farther and farther apart from him. And he wanted to do the same. 

“I’m ashamed to of known you.”

She stormed out, her hair flying in the warm wind as she gently slammed the door behind her, Bruce buried his head in his hands. People from their tables watched him with wonder, awaiting for his next step. Now he'd done it. But instead of wasting the energy in running after her like a lovesick puppy, he sighed heavily and put his jacket back on, standing up. Her lack of judgement and understanding of people who were what he called insane made him question whether she was emotionally flawed just as he was, maybe much more than him truthfully. He hadn't much to believe in as he sits in the shadow of the bar. It grew darker as the sun had finally disappeared and looked the way any place that created corruption and Chaos would; dark and frightfully unnerving. 

  
_Then his eyes saw the man responsible for Corruption._

  
"You're taller than you look in the tabloids, Mr. Wayne." Said Carmine Falcone in a tone that seemed all too causal, it was like the tone Alfred used when Bruce used to get home too late for dinner. The tone that made better sense accompanying the words _"I've been expecting you though I would've thought you'd get here earlier."_ Bruce squared his shoulders, shivering at two pairs of hands searching is pockets.

  
"No gun? l'm insulted." Falcone exclaimed picking at the food on his plate then looking up to meet Bruce's eyes. "You could've just sent a thank-you note."   
  
His lip turned and a fire burst out in Bruce's eye, _how awfully pigheaded of him_. "l didn't come here to thank you." Bruce growled with a venomous sneer, a clenched fist punching the wooden table top. He could've been a little less aggressive, sure, but Falcone either way didn't look like the type to be easily intimidated. "l came here to show you that not everyone in Gotham's afraid of you."

  
Falcone marvelled at Bruce's outspokeness accompanied by head turns of others and second glances. Falcone also smirked at the naivety of the Rich Boy in front of him. "Only those who know me, kid." He said simply shrugging, Bruce's outburst barely acknowledged. "Look around you. You'll see two councilmen a union official, couple off-duty cops and a judge." The sound of a gun being loaded made its way to Bruce's reddened ears, " l wouldn't have a second's hesitation of blowing your head off in front of them." His stomach did a dive, Bruce's actions did the opposite and challenged his fear. "Now, that's power you can't buy. That's the power of fear."

  
Bruce scowled, "l'm not afraid of you." He responded coldly, "you're just a nobody with undeserved power for all the wrong of reasons. I'm not afraid of someone who thinks targeting young women and cornering men is a form of power, in fact, I'm more disgusted."

  
"Because you think you got nothing to lose. But you haven't thought it through." Falcone replied, eyes dark. "You haven't thought about your lady friend in the DA's office. You haven't thought about your old butler. Bang! Oh, what about your Fiancé. Seems she's got a lot to say about me, maybe I should pay her a visit and change her mind." Bruce gulps, "you know what happens to Heroes as you might call yourself, the Heroes Love Interest always gets hurt." he hadn't thought it through. The anger in Falcone's words were evident and it made Bruce fear they wouldn't hesitate to hurt Christina. 

  
"People from your world have so much to lose." Falcone adjusts himself in his seat. "Now, you think because your mommy and your daddy got shot you know about the ugly side of life, but you don't." His Thugs grabbed his arms, Bruce tried to fight them off. "You've never tasted desperate. You're... You're Bruce Wayne, the prince of Gotham. You'd have to go 1000 miles to meet someone who didn't know your name."

  
He backed away and slapped a hand from his arm, Falcone snivelled at the sight of someone with cleaner money. "So don't come here with your anger, trying to prove something to yourself. This is a world you'll never understand. And you always fear what you don't understand."

  
The talk had as much impact as a slap on the wrist, there was always the consequences that happened much later on. "Yeah, you got spirit, kid. l'll give you that." The Crimelord smiled with a little genuine spark, "More than your old man anyway.

Bruce frowns, what had any of this to do with his Father, Bruce thought. "ln the joint, Chill told me about the night he killed your parents. He said your father begged for mercy." He shook his head, his Father never. "Begged. Like a dog."

  
Anger seethed through his skin at Chill's lies. His Father went bravely. The day Bruce remembered almost like yesterday. His Father negotiated. There was no, please have mercy, neither was there, I'm begging you. Thomas didn't flinch, only when he did that, he tried to save his Wife as any decent human would. 

  
"Say what you want about fear, but the end of the day kid. My Boys would have a field day with your little Fiancé. Your DA friend, your Butler can fight for so long. But her, she's what any thug would see as easy prey, delicate and a pretty face. You want to keep her safe? Keep your mouth shut."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At first I had no idea how to get this chapter and at first I was going to cut out Bruce's interaction with Falcone, but I realised it's sorta essential. Chrissie's interaction with Bruce was the biggest mind-fuck because how do you make it less cliché and eye-opening for Bruce. 
> 
> Don't forget to comment, 'till next time !!


	3. He'll Be Back, I'm Sure of It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce's disappearance doesn't sit all that well for Christina and she grows unconvinced that he's really dead.

**THE WRITINGS ON THE WALL**

_ Chapter Two: "He'll Be Back, I'm Sure of It" _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_ Gotham Cemetery _

_ 1999 _

* * *

Christina's parents were not criminals. They were never angels either. Villains perhaps? Well, her father certainly was. When Christina turned five, they'd been married for fifteen years, and hadn't had sex with each other for thirteen of them. The marriage was really a front for the sake of the Family image. Christina had a peculiar childhood, Bruce and Rachel being the only normality within it. She had parents who may have been rivals of each other whether her Father had introduced his latest Mistress or her Mother was drinking a thousand litres over the limit. Even then, Christina still managed to be a likeable person that people could only guess she had a loving family and totally not a dysfunctional household at all.

Bruce's _"death"_ brought back a million and one different memories from the aftermath of her Father's death to early memories that brought Christina another heartache and a fresh glass of warm tears. Guilt also sat on her shoulders like a Sports Teacher that constantly belittled her and brought the worst in everyone. Bruce's death wasn't confirmed but nobody was worried while Christina felt nauseated at all of the grizzly possibilities that lay out there. She never planned to sit and make Bruce into the best thing ever, she didn't plan to grieve forever and disregard some of the unforgivable actions he made but Bruce had too much of an emotional footprint to simply fill. Bruce was the love of her life at a point and his apparent and unconfirmed death took away a part of her soul. 

Christina held a bouquet of flowers, turning to her Mother who regarded the spreading gossip as a heartbreak for herself. "There's _nothing_ I can tell you that'll make the heartbreak easier, my love." Mary Martin simply said removing her out-of-fashion lace gloves, a long finger tracing the lacy pattern on the material. 

In a way, Mary was just as any normal Mother. She never treated Christina any lesser than her own daughter despite the bitter relationship with her Father and her unexposed drinking problem. Christina idolised her Mother when she reached the age of understanding complications, she idolised her Mother's strength. She also reflected her Mother's relationship with her Father and almost always she grew resentful of her own relationship with Bruce. She didn't want to wake up one day with a dependence for alcohol or watch a potential husband pursue a new mistress every week and most certainly, she didn't want to hate Bruce. 

Her Parents were sweethearts from the word _"go"_. There was no time put into their commitments but they were almost the same age as she and Bruce when they developed a relationship and they were just as she and Bruce had been- young and in love. Only, it was later on that they realised their incompatibility. Though they stayed married anyway.

_ I'll never have the chance to be with him long enough to resent him,  _ Christina thought absent minded as she looked at the freshly cut roses, hydrated with trickles of water hitting her overheating skin like a cooling and comforting ice cube. Like a reflex, Christina turned to where her Mother stood holding an umbrella Alfred loaned them in her gloved hand. Mary tried to send her daughter a smile of reassurance, her daughter simply scowled and continued her gaze at Martha and Thomas' graves. Bruce was yet to have a grave, nobody seemed to think about it enough to announce him worthy- or dead enough to be granted a gravestone. The thought conflicted with Christina's mind, from the denial of Bruce being gone without a trace to wishing for a life that didn't have herself dwelling in another Bruce Wayne Dilemma. The reality of losing a love, was like losing something she never acknowledged her need for. 

"It just doesn't make sense Mom," Christina declared with an undertone of guilt, grief even. Mary watched her Daughter's composure slowly crumble and fall apart like a landslide. "Bruce can't just _suddenly_ die, he can't just _disappear_ without a trace." She sniffled angrily wiping her runny nose with a kleenex tissue in her coat pocket. The words that she said the day before, maybe even the day he disappeared sat even heavier on her shoulders. Bruce's death treated not far off of unsuspicious, there wasn't any reason for someone to kill him while everyone believed there was a motive for him to want to end his life. It had been more than a year since anyone caught glimpse of him. "I guess I was just silly to even believe Bruce's lifetime promise." Her voice grew quiet and her composure built itself another firewall, Christina didn't want her Love to watch her in such a state when he was all the way up in heaven, without a way to hold her like he used to. 

Mary wrapped her daughter in a Motherly embrace, one of those embraces that were warm and without a word asked her to drop her guard and let her inside. But Christina refused to wave the white flag. She could see the faces of loved ones in her mind, ogling over each other in fake sympathy because the last Wayne dropped off. She could see only strangers, distance grew and Bruce almost felt like another life she hadn't touched but only heard of in the paper. Just another life she never knew, until the day came for that life to be acknowledged when everyone gathered to say farewell to it. 

"Now it's time you live life for two."

Mary's favoured quote brought question to Christina, she wondered if Bruce had ever had the chance to find out what his life was all about. 

Mary used to say those words to Widows who felt like giving up on their life after the loss of their other half. Mary was odd that way, money and adventure had always been what interested her. Her husband didn't give her them fast enough in the early stages of their marriage, which he often blamed partly for the diagnosis of its sour breakage. Christina grew her opinion and using their marriage as an example in her first year of Psychology. She diagnosed the failure by judging their intimacy and their personalities, she couldn't say either Parent even shared the trait of corruption. Mary was just a free spirit who wanted it all while David was a corrupt sleaze of a crook who cared for reputation more than anything.

The Marriage also went wrong because of sex: Mary just didn't turn her husband on, or didn't turn him on enough. And in retaliation to his disinterest, he never stopped reminding her of how much of a woman he believed she wasn't. His opinion rested on the lines of, basically a hooker, trying to reform herself. 

"I might've hated your Dad, but I understand how you feel." Said Mary without emotion. "You never forget your first loves. Bruce maybe just another life that's gone, in the end but somewhere deep inside, you're glad to have known him." 

Not enough to celebrate the epilogue of his life. Christina nodded contradicting her thoughts. "There's no hard evidence Bruce is dead," the Girl reminded her Mother sincerely. "Until there is, I'll never rest. I won't move on until I can be at peace." She sighed, if a glimmer of hope sat to prove Bruce was alright; she certainly guaranteed there wouldn't be a celebration on her terms. The loss of someone she had been so close with, intimately involved and almost entwined brought a strain on Christina's emotions as she continued to stare at an empty into nowhere in particular settling on a wilting rose Bush. Definition of her love life, really. She thought sadly. 

It wasn't just Christina, Alfred and Rachel who were affected by such a sudden death. Mary took it as a big loss, the Boy who used to take her daughter and spend the sunny afternoons playing childish games, the young man who put her husband straight after a silly argument about Christina’s future. After his Parents died and Alfred was left to pick up the pieces of what had been Bruce's life, behind Christina's enthusiasm and behind the life Bruce resented for being more normal than his, her Parents' marriage crumbled due to her Mother's own incompatibility with her husband. _"Nobody turns me on like David"_ she used to tell her friends loudly in public, _"I can't make it with another man."_ She used to keep the image of a happy marriage when all she wanted was to be and feel loved. To escape her husband, she turned to Alfred who was facing his battle of loneliness. He had an eight year old Boy and nobody else, Mary had a seven year old daughter and nobody else. Alfred's class is what Mary enjoyed, and something her own husband never pulled off. Then the comfort grew into a platonic relationship between two parents trying to raise their children without the bad things seeping through their invisible shelter. 

Christina saw Alfred as her Father figure and Bruce saw Mary as an ally at the most. He never developed trust for her until years later, but Mary and Alfred never gave up. Some days Alfred stayed with his Foster Son while Mary was with her unfaithful husband and her daughter and on other days Mary would sit by Bruce's side talking about the things she picked up from Christina who was of a similar age and seemed to know his likes and dislikes, but he didn't show emotion. Alfred would show Christina around the place and taught her to sew. Bruce was just, traumatized and emotionally broken, Mary used to feel defeated, seeing the shadow of the Boy who used to bring joy to all. But she couldn't put her own daughter aside, she refused to second her child like she refused to let her daughter meet her Father's affairs and witnessing her own drinking dependence.

"That's your decision, Chris." Said Mary sadly, "but I put my foot down as I refuse to lose my baby like I lost a Son-in-law." Reminded her Mother with a sternness she only heard being used around her Father. 

"Oh come off it, there's no love, and I stand by that you idiot!"

Christina shivered at yet another memory of another manifesting argument between her parents who were nothing like Rachel's or Bruce's. 

Mary was attractive with a daughter who took after with a closely resembled stunning face, Mary was also flashy with bangles and necklaces from the 80s. Christina used to resent her Mother's games, she could be stern and yell and her Father would laugh. 

In the end, Mary was no fool. She could keep two sets of books with the best of them, hire with skill and fire without mercy.

Every bump in her Marriage and everyone of her Husband's sordid affairs was reacted with a burning flame in her act. Sexual innuendo was the key to her personality. Mary winked. She teased any man who looked rich. ."Have you seen the Honda 750? Take me for a ride any time!" she can be so polite to lingering men around her that her husband wished he'd gone to a wine-bar instead of the night-bar down in the Narrows where his business was.

"Look at you, my love." Mary exclaimed cupping her daughter's face with her aging hands. "It seems tough now, but you'll slowly move on from Bruce. We all have to." 

She didn't want to just brush off the love of her life like a passing fancy, Christina choked on emotion she hadn't been aware of creeping in her throat. "I love him, I always loved him Mom and he died possibly because of me. How do I move on, a psychiatrist who might've given the Prince of Gotham the tip off to go and hang himself, hurt himself somewhere far from his own home."

Mary shook her head, "I don't think Bruce had any motive to suddenly decide to end his life. If he has, he wouldn't have done it because of you, any of us." The older woman sighed, "you know what Bruce's like- the near sight of a little trouble, the little bust of his bubble, he's gone without a second opinion. He just needs time to make a proper procession of the trial and possibly find himself some help."

Christina nodded. That had to be it, she thought with a sad smile. She turned to her Mom’s open arms and found herself clinging like a lost child. Bruce wasn’t dead, he was just doing what he did best and running away from real life.

With the glimmer of a smile and tear and mascara stained cheeks, Christina stared at Mr and Mrs Wayne’s gravestones.

“He’ll be back, I’m sure of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while, just dealing with some finals here in the real world. This was only shorter because the next chapter will focus on a time skip of eight years !!


	4. The Prince's Symbol

**THE WRITING'S ON THE WALL**

_ Chapter Three: "The Prince's Symbol" _

_ Gotham Cemetery _

_ 2005 _

* * *

Gripping a small bouquet harder than she needed to, she made her way down the stone path to the grave, noting that the sky was dark and it would probably rain all the way back home. Her footprints trudged through the Winter layers of pristine white Snow, she came here every week; sitting beside him with a new bouquet of flowers placed next to the withering Roses from the weeks before. Her favourite flower was daffodils, but in Winter a finely cut bouquet of twenty stemmed white roses were the next best thing the price meaning nothing to her lifetime. Christina kneels down, coming to her usual spot where the marble stone sat untouched yet a presence strong in her heart the closer her footsteps grew to his resting place. This night had felt significantly special; to Christina it was still a decade exactly from the night Bruce promised a lifetime with her, and the first decade lived without him by her side. Christina felt she had so much to talk about, and yet words couldn't spill from her lips and instead she lays down the blanket in one hand and sits the twenty roses in her other next to his name. Christina smiled bitterly and stared at her watch, every tick of the mechanism thumping in her ears. 

Looking down at the engraved words, she sighed. It had been a long time since her last visit, and she felt guilty - to say the least. Kneeling down in the thick grass, Christina gently brushed away the shrivelled-up remains of the last batch of flowers she had brought. 

Work had been taking over her lifetime, Crane grew sluggish and spent less time in his Office it seemed to her and she was left picking up the pieces in Arkham. It was a terrible excuse, but Christina had simply felt too overworked and stressed to keep coming and going. Time was growing shorter and work was piling. The realisations of Bruce’s absence came with it, Christina was getting older and she was more alone than ever. She missed Bruce more than she did at the beginning, whether the lack of intimacy and companionship starved her or the desolation of her lifestyle, Christina wanted to try and move on- or at least acknowledge Bruce’s permanent state.

Guilt seemed to eat away at Christina, eight long and lonely years had passed, but she never healed from the sudden death. His two year disappearance was of no significance and the eight long years felt like the first time being away from him and truly it was difficult as time ticked and minutes and lost moments became past tense. 

Her love for Bruce never faded nor vanished, but nearing eight and a half years; the urge to find someone else was there. Though sadly, nobody else could be Bruce Wayne. 

Looking at the bunch of roses clasped tightly in one hand, she sighed and laid them carefully on the fresh soil. "I brought you some new roses. I know the old ones are pretty well gone; and I would have been by sooner - but you know how life goes." She licked her lips. She didn’t come to make small talk with a dead man, she didn’t come to treat a grave like a lover. Christina had debated it for a while and now the time felt right, there weren’t any obstacles standing in her way or reminders- across the time and spaces where Bruce used to fill, the door to moving on was open.

"I’m sure you’re busy with your Mom and Dad..." The words hung in the air as she watched the rose petals shift in the slight wind. “Um, look, I-I've got a crisis that I have to resolve in one way.” Smiling bashfully as she imagined Bruce awaiting for his moment to speak or raising an eyebrow at her bashfullness, Christina shuffled closer. “I think I’ve been holding myself back from meeting someone else.” She wiped a desolate tear that reminded her very much of herself. “And I think it's because I can't let you go.” 

A shaky breath left her system and Christina stared up to the skies filled with dark clouds and an astronomy image of stars dancing. “It’s not even your fault, but you're not here anymore so I have to ask this: Would it be okay if I moved on?” It seemed silly, especially if someone were to walk past some Girl crying over the dead Prince’s grave, but it was an exercise Christina was taught in psychology training and one she recommended to mourning patients. Though it was sad that Bruce wasn’t there, he couldn’t send signals and she couldn’t hear his response or know his feelings about moving on. It made her a little crazy if not worse off. “I understand that you don’t have any way of answering that, but, I’ll take your silence as a sign.”

Christina looked up to the dark emotionless skies, the dark and thunderous clouds were a sign that a storm was on its way but it didn’t persuade her to go home, instead she smiled sadly at the gravestone standing. “I guess this is it.” She squeaked, cringing at the emotion in her voice break. Christina wiped away a tear that had travelled to her chin. “Bye, Bruce.”

Her hand ached. Looking down, she stared at the tiny pinpricks in her palm; the minute blood spots itching. Thorns. Thorns protected roses, because they were so beautiful. They made you pay for wanting something so badly that you reached out and grabbed it before being careful. 

Thorns hurt. 

But all the roses had thorns. Especially the most beautiful ones. So why pick them; when they would hurt you? It felt like a rhetorical question the more Christina pondered it. She felt as though Bruce was the answer, her one-sided relationship being the solution and her feelings both presently and in past tense being the answer. 

Because it was worth it in the end. Some price had to be paid; and the thorns took the payment in blood. Payment in blood. Bowing her head, Christina closed her dampened eyes. But one does anything for something beautiful, something that looks beautiful on the outside. Well, that worked both ways. And one day there would be no more thorns; no more payments. Just roses, bright and beautiful stretching up towards the sun and blocking out all the dark clouds. 

One day. 

Getting to her feet; she brushed the dirt methodically from her skirt and walked away in silence. She bit her bottom lip. 

* * *

Wayne Private Jet

2005

* * *

“Master Wayne, you've been gone a long time.”

The glimmer of mischief twinkled in Bruce’s hazel eyes as a familiar figure appeared in his Peripheral vision. Bruce inspected the older man in front of him, warmth from fondness building up in the pit of his stomach. He might’ve been gone for a couple years off a decade, but Bruce still felt he had an emotional attachment to Alfred Pennyworth, the man who raised him practically and the man who worked for his family. 

“Yes, l have.” Said Bruce with a line of a smirk stretched across his features, heavy bags in his hand as he walked shoulder to shoulder with Alfred toward the private jet waiting for them. Alfred seemed to hold a fond look in his face as he took in Bruce’s older features, it had been so long since he had seen Bruce that he very nearly forgot how he looked. The older Gentleman didn’t hide the smile that took over his aging features as he took one bag from Bruce’s left hand. 

Alfred caught glimpse of whatever it was Bruce seemed to be wearing, hiding his confusion, he merely chuckled. “You look very fashionable. Apart from the mud.” 

  
Bruce chuckled at that statement, it felt like a very parental thing to be said. It brought a slight memory of his childhood back to his mind currently, but nothing more as he had tried to block out the memories that would weaken him. He bent his head as he trecked up the stairs to the jet and made his tall frame smaller as he went through the open doorway, sitting in a seat while Alfred took his seat parrell to him.

Four o’clock was just an insignificant blip in the continuum–but it couldn’t come fast enough. The jet’s mechanism echoed through every part of Bruce’s body, he’d been gone from the lush life for so long that he barely remembered what he had. ; He and Alfred alike chatted about what the return meant to them. Alfred listened to childhood memories that paralleled his own memories of the boy in front- sad and depressing. Bruce recalled his parents’ death defining his youth, belting the thoughts he was once too naïve to come up with in previous years.

Bruce averted his gaze from the Butler to focus instead on the landscape outside the jet’s window at his side, Almost a cross-eyed view. Alfred wasn’t kidding when he said they were good seats; he probably decided to have them fitted as a way in reminding Bruce of the fortune he had left in Gotham. The money Bruce felt he didn’t deserve, the life he wished he never had. As it approached closer toward his hometown, his daze grew much more paralysing, an imagined gunshot piercing his eardrums but in the most pleasurable way possible. The exhilaration was as palpable as the muggy air around him, as vibrant as the bright and sunny filled light that drank in Alfred’s clarified blue eyes. The windows and were rainbow reflective, and they were the antithesis of Bruce’s images of Gotham City. The taut rope of anticipation in getting home after so long was coming to a glorious snap; it was already hanging from a bare thread.

Alfred leaned close, like a detective sitting in a questioning room. “ Are you coming back to Gotham for long, sir?” Asked the Butler, curiously but also cautiously as he pondered whether Bruce should be resurrected or left dead in peoples’ minds. He wasn’t too sure about Bruce, whether he was home to stay or another flying visit.

“As long as it takes.” Bruce replied without emotion in his voice, it was rather commanding and it left Alfred to wonder if he’d been given a few lessons in speech, a boy who held emotion was suddenly emotionless. “l want to show the people their city doesn't belong to the criminals and the corrupt.”

“ln the depression, your father nearly bankrupted Wayne Enterprises combating poverty. He believed his example could inspire the wealthy of Gotham to save their city. “

“Did it?”

“ln a way.” Alfred balanced his view, he neither agrees or disagrees as not all wealthy people had the same outlook. “Their murder shocked the wealthy and the powerful into action.” Explained Alfred with a light sigh as he took a small sip from the drink that sat in front of him, Alfred swished the taste around, revelling the milk in his tea while eyeing Bruce with caution. 

“People need dramatic examples to shake them out of apathy, but l can't do that as Bruce Wayne.” 

Bruce paused, his mind doing somersaults while he tried to find the words to express his inner feelings. “As a man, l'm flesh and blood, l can be ignored, destroyed.” He smiles out the sunlight before turning back with hope in his eyes, “but as a symbol. As a symbol, l can be incorruptible.l can be everlasting.”

“What symbol?”

“Something elemental something terrifying.” Bruce envisioned, mimiking his hands in demonstration. Not that Alfred needed the visual.

“l assume that as you take on the underworld this symbol is a persona to protect those you care about from reprisals?” 

“You're thinking about Rachel and C-?”

“Actually, sir, l was thinking of myself.” Alfred bit back with a slight grin, though in hindsight he wished to avoid the topic of those Bruce left behind. As angry as he had been at a point, Alfred simply chose to stop acknowledging it. Bruce was Bruce, he couldn’t control the majority of things the billionaire seemed to do, Bruce didn’t take orders- Alfred couldn’t do very much to help. 

But the Butler had been torn for both Rachel and Christina, Rachel who simply shrugged Bruce off with little acknowledgement and holding some hope he would somehow re-appear and Christina, who never seemed to forgive herself. Alfred hurt for Christina, the love of Bruce’s life- he had hoped that Bruce would’ve grown up and realised what he needed in his life but maybe that had been Alfred who was too busy idolizing a normal life for Bruce rather than thinking of his trauma. He’d only hoped Bruce would settle and perhaps father his own children, though looking at him now, marriage and children were nowhere to be seen and never would be.

Bruce cleared his throat, staring into nothing particular. “Have you told anyone l'm coming back?” He asked casually, like he was asking about the weather. It made Alfred frown, he hadn’t spoken of Bruce but everyone jumped to their own conclusions while Alfred blocked it from his ears. Then there was the mess at Wayne Enterprises where Alfred’s excuses had been ignored and fallen on death ears, everyone simply thought the Prince of Gotham- was dead.

Alfred was having a great time trying to think of a light-hearted way in breaking the news to the Ghost of Gotham, “l couldn't figure the legal ramifications of bringing you back from the dead.” He said deadly serious, no doubt enjoying the way Bruce’s boyish features grew into bulging eyes of shock and a mouth hanging open, he enjoyed that a little too much. But an old man like him never had any better ways to gain satisfaction than scaring the youthinized. 

Bruce’s expression was priceless, so stunned that he was lost for words while his posture held a resemblance to that scene in Breakfast in Tiffany’s where a shocked Audrey Hepburn pulled down her sunglasses whilst holding a cigarette in the other. “Dead?” Bruce whimpered, like a man who had run into a deal of great debt holding a now mortified expression. “You had me declared dead?” He asked, blatantly amused now, Alfred couldn’t keep up with Bruce’s emotions. 

“Actually,” Alfred cut in with a knowing glance, “it was Mr. Earle.” He gestured with little sadness. “He's taking the company public. He wanted to liquidate your majority shareholding.” Bruce nodded, understanding the situation a little better, all while acknowledging Alfred’s intelligence. It wasn’t like Alfred declared him dead, nor agreed and yet he must’ve known mostly everything was left to him therefore there were no losses or winnings. “ Those shares are worth quite a bit of money.” Alfred reminded him, Bruce rolled his eyes feeling like a child who had been given an expensive toy or the weekly pocket money.

Bruce smirked, “Well, it's a good thing l left everything to you, then.” He said with a tantilizing smirk at Earle’s actions.

“Quite so, sir.” Alfred agreed with an obedient nod. 


	5. Just Do Whatever it Takes

**THE WRITING'S ON THE WALL**

_Chapter Four: "Just Do Whatever it Takes"_

Arkham, Gotham City

2005

* * *

"Doctor Crane, I assure you, he was a hundred percent aware of his actions and his surroundings."

Jonathan Crane sat in his seat, listening to his co-worker intently. He held a stable working relationship with Doctor Martin, sometimes he found her presence a mere blessing for Arkham, other times he found her idealist and trusting traits to be the prime switch-off to her presence. 

Christina was one of the Psychologists like himself that was lucky enough to have knowledge of every going on, as one of the heads she also had responsibilities others didn't. Crane liked it that way because he was her Boss and unlike the others- Christina kept her mouth shut. He had his crazy ideas and surprisingly, Miss I-understand never seemed to judge him even if his spontaneoty got the better of him.

He twirled a ballpoint in his left hand, wheeling in a motionless circle as he twirled like a fairy in the computer seat. "And you're sure?" He challanged lightly causing Christina to frown and cross her arms over her chest. "I've been testing a new project, as a way of seeing how the patients react, maybe they'll grow more staballized or stay the same. It's a game, y'know."

Christina smiled sadly, her smile faded as his words stayed in the air and she let her common sense kick in. She pondered his words, was there ever testing for whatever Jonathan wanted to use? She scowled at the thought of injecting people with the wrong thing, what if someone accidentally died under the said project? "Jon, these patients are human beings." She stated, shaking her head and looking at the head of Arkham looking very sure of himself. "They're not Lab Rats, you can't test some wacky new medicine just because you think it'll do good, hell, you even stated yourself, it could be pointless. What if someone actually reacts negatively."

Crane shrugs in reply checking his wristwatch watching the watchface shine in the dim ceiling light, "Doctor Martin. Not everybody is a humanitarian. If you want a man or woman who holds an insane obsession with little children or a man who enjoys preying on women like you, then you should really ask yourself, am I doing what's best for my conscience or the people in Gotham? At the end of the day Chris, you don't want the Perverts getting out, you never know, it could be you."

Crane wasn’t as smart as he seemed to think of himself. Christina had looked at his past, she empathized with it and she understood where his interest in psychology came from, but there seemed to be something missing about him. She felt there was something more to him and she didn’t trust him, in case there was a double-cross. As little as Christina trusted her co-worker or much more demanding head. She had no proof, no sufficient evidence to say he shouldn’t be round. She didn’t dislike him so much that she wanted to get him out, she wasn’t a fool and Crane certainly wasn’t either. 

However, Crane got to her. Sweat clammed her palms at Crane's startling words, but Christina remained conflicted. Gotham was already full of sane people with knives and guns, Crane's idea sounded cruel if not any less than a torture device, the people in Arkham were mentally unwell and this project was either being misexplained or another Corrupted method of getting rid of the people who were easy. But he had a point, Arkham wasn't all that secure. There had been patients who never returned to their cells, there were Psychologists who paid the price from trying to remedy an insane psycho. The chilling revelation of someone dangerous escaping and hurting someone vulnerable, someone innocent- Christina wasn't sure how to deal with the dilemna. 

She lived in the Narrows and had eavesdropped in on situations that played with lives like fishing, in Gotham City, you couldn't intervene with a thug. The simplest of fights almost always esculated into a murder crime scene. The times Christina heard a scream or heard a gunshot, she simply resented the inability of stepping forward. Even the cops were corrupted, if any witness went forward, they were at risk with the mob. If a leaf was blown in the night, there was bound to be a paranoid gunshot.

"Think about what I'm saying Doctor, some crazy psycho like these locked up. It could be easy for them to escape, without hesitation, they'd come for a dainty Girl like yourself. Chrissie, you're the epitone of a target with your golden hair and fragile figure, a face that people could mistake for an adosolecent. You're the antithesis of someone able to defend themself and anyday, anytime, anyplace. Some Mad-man would pick you up like a shiny dime."

Jonathan had never been this dark, usually he was as soft as his face looked. His dark eyes bore through hers expecting an answer of agreement, Christina couldn't answer too uncomfortable all together. Crane could be a number of things, including manipulative at certain times, but he was never silly enough to threaten herself or any of the others with the patients. She felt stupid for listening to him, but the sick thoughts planted in her mind like venomous seeds made her empathy cell take over sense. She didn’t want anymore people to escape, anymore people to be hurt because of the people she failed to fix- it was a nasty thought, a vulgar thought that left a bitter aftertaste in her mouth- but Christina couldn’t stop thinking about it.

In the corner of her eyes was Rachel, looking intensely toward Crane who had by now turned in Rachel’s direction. Christina frowned, briefly she had an idea that had come down to Falcone’s thugs being put in Arkham, it seemed suspicious- Christina felt suspicious at one time, but Crane gave her the supported evidence. They were in their cells screaming, hurling their shoes and another rocked himself whining in the corner screaming and sobbing about one word- Scarecrow. At first it was suspicious, but the Thugs didn’t seem to stop and her common sense had her certain Falcone was in on it, some drug that caused an everlasting effect. 

“You think a man who butchers people for the mob doesn't belong in jail?” Rachel asked in an accusory tone, eyes narrowed to Christina who was on her list of questions to ask. Rachel frowned holding the strap of her purse securely on her shoulder awaiting with a predatory glare whilst eyeing Crane for any sign of guilt on his features. 

“l would hardly have testified to that otherwise, would l?” Crane bit back, blue eyes radiant as he stared Rachel down like a scrap of meat. Christina stood at his side, confused whilst watching Rachel equally as confused. Why was she here, what was she planning to gain? Rachel was a hard nut to crack open, Christina hated her stubbornness but it sometimes gained more. 

“This is the third of Falcone's thugs you've had declared insane and moved into your asylum.” Rachel snapped, her nostrils flared and her cheeks blushed an angry red. Christina frowned, at a crossroad she debated whether she should step in. She couldn’t stand Rachel whenever she got too caught up in herself and tried to play the Inspector, Christina hated people who disrespected her co-workers. Crane was a funny man, but Christina doubted he played any part. 

“The work offered by organized crime must have an attraction to the insane.” 

“Or the corrupt.”

“Rachel sto-”

A hand was waved to cut her off and Crane took a smug look at Finch, beckoning him over “Mr. Finch. I think you should check with Miss Dawes here just what implications your office has authorized her to make.” He demanded softly, Christina took the slight arrogance in his voice. Rachel cut a glare toward him as though she’d been snitched on, she gave Christina the same glare before stomping off in Finch’s direction.

“Say nothing Doctor Martin,” said Crane with a menacing look. “She’s a friend of yours isn’t she?” He then questioned with a sharp tone that Christina couldn’t understand. “I don’t need you getting involved, I’m looking out for you. Falcone has half the city bought and paid for.” 

Christina watched him through her eyelashes, every movement of his facial muscles. He barely moved, just suspiciously still. Falcone was a figure everyone had to be careful of, the wrong thing said to anyone could be fatal if he had something to do with it. People named him a villian, but Christina heard so much that she would name him a much worser name. He was evil, nothing more to him. 

“Jon I’m not standing Rachel- or anyone in that matter accusing us of taking in a bunch of thugs for convienece.” Crane eyed the Girl intently, the sudden need to have her out of the way. She was a danger to his plan, like Rachel, she was another idealist. His eyes narrowed as she continued her delierious rant, speaking gibberish as she frowned toward him. “This is a place for people who aren’t in the right state of mind, how can anyone think that we or any of the staff here are taking any nonsense from anyone- especially the thing of rat bastard Thugs, Falcone.”

Crane turned away from her, knowing what he had to do. 

“Why don’t we discuss this at dinner, Doctor Martin. I’ve been meaning to ask you for a while.”

Christina cautiously nodded, “alright. Just promise there won’t be any of Falcone’s men sitting with us,” she joked innocently much to Crane’s annoyance. 

Oh how wrong could she be, he pitied the Girl, but she was in the way.

* * *

“Hey, l scratch your back, you scratch mine, doc.” Said Falcone leaning back in his chair, Crane shrugs sensing Falcone’s body language. He may not of been intimidated, but likewise, Crane had never been less intimidated either. Falcone didn’t scare him, like he seemed to scare everyone else. 

“l am more than aware that you are not intimidated by me, Mr. Falcone.” Crane replied clasping his hands on his lap, “But you know who l'm working for, and when he gets here..” He held a finger to Falcone, watching the expression change with satisfaction. Like a moving photo, Crane hid his smirk, he had Falcone wrapped around his finger and the feeling of doing something no other could, was blissful. He was yet to acknowledge his own corruption, but Crane was so into himself, he probably never would.

Falcone gawked, fear twinkling in his eyes, “He... He's coming to Gotham?” He asked with a hesitant spur, looking at Crane with the fear of a child.

“Yes, he is.” Crane nodded. And when he gets here,” he added in a mockery sing song, “he's not going to wanna hear that you've endangered our operation just to get your thugs out of jail time.” Just as Crane suspected, Falcone visibly tensed, stiffening his posture before sitting upright. 

“Who's bothering you?” Crane asked simply, the fear gone and hopes to get himself out of trouble with fulfilling favours.

“Two Girls. One at the DA’s office, and one in the Asylum.” 

“We'll buy them off.” Falcone insisted with determination, Crane shook his head. “ldealists, huh? Well, there's an answer to that too.”

“Bruce Wayne’s squeeze,” Crane added, “the blonde Doctor Christina Martin. I’m sure you’ve heard of her.”

Falcone smiled, “a pretty pretty Girl. There’s lot’s that can be done especially to get her out of the way.” 

Falcone’s sinister tone didn’t make Crane less relieved, but there was little worry. Christina wasn’t an enemy, but she was a smart Girl and the person that she was meant the longer she was around, the more goodbyes Crane would be saying. She wasn’t an idiot and he didn’t trust her to go digging in places she didn’t belong, her humaritarian personality made her only a little easier to play. But if he kept her in the background, there was high chance of himself being played by her. At least Falcone’s plans for her wouldn’t see Crane watch either her end, or her downfall. Maybe he wouldn’t kill her but just scare her into believing what he had told her. No matter who she might’ve been either smart or strong, she had the face of a small and vulnerable Girl and any thug would take advantage of that. The quicker she believed the saying, the less worrying Crane needed to do.

“I don’t want to kill her persay,” Crane added going against his own moral of no attachment. “But of I just find a way to scare her into keeping in her own business, maybe she won’t intrude where she shouldn’t.” 

Falcone shrugged, “She’s a smart Girl and any klutz knows the Gotham lights. A scare isn’t enough, I don’t know what could be, but if you’re that serious about the no-murder on a weekday, I won’t. But the thugs ain’t going easy, she causes me enough grief especially in the past.”

“Just do whatever it takes.”


	6. The Typical Prince

**THE WRITING'S ON THE WALL**

_Chapter Five: "The Typical Prince"_

_Gotham City_

_2005_

* * *

Bruce had gotten over his initial shock from Alfred, deciding to dress in a newly tailored suit that sat in his wardrobe unworn. He rather liked it, impressed by the smart man he seemed to see himself as in the mirror wearing a suit that was plain but had a bit of flavour and a cheeky red plain tie. He slicked his bitter brown hair back, staring tensely at himself wondering how and why he was in that position. After a talk with Alfred, about taking Justice into his own hands Bruce had decided to resurrect himself- Mr Earle was going to have a form of a heart attack, but Bruce smirked at that thought. There was a satisfaction, he was sure Earle probably felt the same satisfaction when he decided to take over Wayne Enterprises without remembering Alfred had most rights. 

Alfred agreed in the logic while Bruce thought of his freedom in taking what was his, using the advantages in bringing his Justice to life. He credited Alfred, any sane person would have laughed in his face while Alfred seemed to mind little that Bruce must’ve looked insane. Deep down, Bruce knew the older Gentleman agreed that something had to be down because everyone else seemed to have been corrupted.

Explaining his journey of finding the criminal life, seeing where they were and how they lived brought the skeptic out in Alfred as he questioned the journey. “You had a Fiance Bruce, who probably had access to every criminal from sanity to insanity. “ Alfred had pointed out during the drive to Wayne Enterprises, eyes staring at Bruce through the mirror. “I know Christina’s a sore subject for you, but might I just point out how far she’s gotten since you left?”

Bruce frowned, “It’s not like she visited I assume Alfred. How would you know?” Alfred huffed at Bruce’s ignorance, there was a hint of defence in his tone. Alfred saw past it, he obviously still felt guilty for leaving and Alfred felt little joy to say the least. But Bruce wasn’t a man to sit and admit to his stupidity or reveal his regrets, he was very different to his Father who was an open and honest man. There wasn’t any point in telling Bruce about Christina visiting the Manor every so often, or his gravestone weekly because she felt his death had been her fault. He wanted to, because he felt he owed it to Christina who had eight years taken away believing she had been at a great and fatal fault. 

It wouldn’t settle the ashes, Alfred wanted to spare the secrecy of Bruce’s deep down regrets and likewise to Christina who would’ve been happier away from Bruce as his return was going to cause her more devastation and anger. He had hoped that one day they would marry, but like sand, it disintegrated and Alfred finally came to terms with it, Bruce just wasn’t the type for all of that. 

But the anger that he thought had subsided, suddenly returned in a hot flush. “But she did visit Sir.” He pointed out with attitude in his voice, briefly glancing at Bruce who put his head down like a lost puppy, “she visited me weekly, sat and had tea with me. Until recently, I told her to move on.” 

  
Bruce’s head suddenly lifted, unreadable to Alfred and he wondered if there was anything to be said. “You’ve always caused her grief, Master Bruce. Whether it was intentional or unintentional. She blamed herself for so long, for a death that she felt she had caused. There are only so many times that I can pick up the pieces, but if picking your pieces means smashing hers into shreds. I shan’t do it, not anymore.” 

The Butler released a breath he didn’t think he had been holding before catching glimpse of Bruce who was processing what he had been told, he knew Alfred was right but his selfishness of having a Girl that he spent the majority of his short life with exceeded his sense. She had always been by his side before he left, he’d almost married her and looking at Alfred who spoke sense, Bruce hated it. He knew she deserved better, but part of him just wanted her back.

“I guess I’m just selfish for coming back after so long and anticipating everything to be untouched.” Said Bruce. His eyes were glittering from the sunlight and a hint of a tear, Alfred didn’t expect him to be emotionless, Christina and Rachel were the only people Bruce ever had time for since his Parents were killed. Nobody else bothered but the Girls and coming home after leaving, he sadly needed to be with everyone else managed to get to and that was real life. Alfred decided to let him learn that lesson himself, sighing as he continued the tension filled drive in silence. 

“l'm here to see Mr. Earle.” 

Fixing his tie knot, Bruce examined his surroundings. The place hadn’t changed all that much in the time he had been gone, A few modern touches, but aside from that, Thomas Wayne’s spirit seemed to be there. The smidge of a smile twitched at the corners of Bruce’s mouth, but the positive didn’t overtake the conversation that had happened on the way. If Chrissie had known… Bruce thought sadly, selfishness seemed to be the main thought on his mind and Bruce questioned whether he was truly more flawed than anyone from having his lifestyle. 

“Name?” 

“Bruce Wayne.”

He’d been gone for eight years, he left his life behind him and he had come home feeling re-invented and determined, but his dread glittered in his vision. He hated himself for his treatment of the people he loved, but there wasn’t anything he could’ve done. He might’ve kept a photo of his ex-Fiance in his beaten wallet while soul searching and living the criminal life, but she and Alfred would point out- if he really cared, he wouldn’t have left her the way that he had. 

“Thomas would probably not have taken the company public.” 

“But that is what we, as responsible managers, are going to do. Jessica? Jessica? Where are you? Why is no one answering the phone?”

Earle was much like how he remembered, he looked the same and wore the same suits. “lt's Wayne Enterprises, Mr. Earle. l'm sure they'll call back.” The assistant simply told Earle, looking towards Bruce who was standing with a hand in his suit pocket. Earle turned in Bruce’s direction, eyes widened at the sight of him.

He took a step forward, and stared towards him trying to decipher whether his eyes were playing some sort of trick on him. “Bruce?” Earle exclaimed, eyes wide and his expression taken aback. “You're supposed to be dead.” He whispered, shock making his voice tremble. Bruce expected as such, it wasn’t everyday a dead man walks into a building. As much as he would’ve loved to have played Earle’s shock, Bruce merely smiled.

“l'm sorry to disappoint.” He said tantalizingly. Earle sent him a sharp look. 

* * *

_Gotham City_

_2005_

* * *

“Get a load of this Chrissie.” Rachel exclaimed taking hold of a newspaper that had been sitting on one of the stands in the small store. Christina frowned, throwing her purse strap over her shoulder and making her way to where Rachel stood. Rachel had looked a mix of horrified and evidently shocked, frowning as the brunette continued to examine the paper. Christina’s eyes were bulging out of her skull at the latest headline that was staring back at her, _“Gotham’s Prince has returned- Bruce Wayne is back in Gotham.”_ Rachel’s weren’t any different, sharing a look of surprise between each other as they figured out what to say to each other next. 

Rachel’s expression turned to sympathetic as words weren’t exchanged in the long moment of silence. Blood seemed to fly around her head as she continued scanning the article, Christina felt conflicted. Eight and a half years, she thought, he didn’t even call. The eight and a half years she had thought Bruce was dead, the eight and a half years wasted in grief over someone who didn’t even think about her, Christina felt her composure break and a loud sob erupted from her throat as her emotions seemed to have gotten the better of her. She certainly felt worse and Bruce's selfishness seemed to be the only thing Christina remembered about him at that moment. Even then, she was shell-shocked at the news, years ago she had anticipated this sort of news, but eight years later she couldn't even find her relief. Part of her wanted to drive to the Mansion and give Bruce hell. For leaving, and for forgetting about her like she had been nothing special.

Rachel simply sighed, “I’m so sorry Chris..” She had said with genuine empathy, wrapping her two arms around her childhood friend. Rachel had her own conflict on the sore subject of Bruce Wayne, she’d spoken to Alfred on a few occasions and never did she think Alfred knew anymore than they did. Now the Billionaire had seemed to of dropped out of the sky, she resented Alfred a little, how long had he kept what he knew from them and why. “He’s a complete jerk, you know.” She wondered if Alfred had known where Bruce was and simply kept quiet just to avoid the confliction, or because Bruce didn't want them to know. 

Had Bruce's intentions really been so selfish? Christina wondered, or was she misunderstanding everything she had seen so far. The only place to get her explanation would be a confrontation with Bruce at the Manor, but Christina felt too agitated to even bother. All of that time, felt pointless. She had wasted what felt like a lifetime pining over someone who didn't seem to care about her and once more, her feelings were one-sided and the finality of it all was there- he didn't love her, he probably never had. Christina wiped away a tear feeling stupid, she'd fallen for someone who couldn't even be honest with her. She'd fallen for it, just like she had believed he was sorry when he cheated. 

Rachel didn’t know what she could say, she was a little relieved that Bruce didn’t appear to look hurt and he seemed to be safe. Maybe she was a little happy that he was alright, he wasn’t really dead. But she knew the relief would wear off and she would eventually get angry over the situation, For years she had wondered if she had been too harsh, but he had mentioned he wasn’t staying- though Rachel had often thought her harsh words drove him away quicker.

Christina thought the same, she was going through an overwhelming flood of emotions, anger and guilt. She didn't know what to believe and who to believe.

She threw the newspaper down and glanced at Rachel with a bitterness in her eyes, “Typical Bruce Wayne.” 

* * *

_Wayne Enterprises, Gotham City_

_2005_

* * *

“l'm not looking to interfere. l am looking for a job.” Bruce insisted with a butter could melt smile. He wanted to punch Earle, he really did. But he had his composure and even though it was slowly decreasing, Bruce kept a sickeningly sweet smile slapped on his face. “l just want to get to know the company that my family built.” 

Earle smiled just as sickeningly sweet, “Any ideas where you would start?” He asked with a tone Bruce recognized as arrogant, it made his dislike for Earle seem like a Teacher/pupil sort of thing. There was always that one person who thought they knew best, Bruce was looking at the king of the know it all field.

“Applied Sciences caught my eye.” Bruce shrugged innocently, keeping his smile plastered on his face in order to look as innocent and boyish as he could. Earle thought it was rather annoying, Bruce read his body language and he was satisfied by the inconvience that he seeemed to have caused. 

“Fox's department. l'll let him know you're coming.”

“You look like him. Your dad. You're the only one left of the Wayne family.” 

  
Fox must’ve been about Alfred’s age if not a little older, but Bruce took comfort in Fox’s informal introduction. He wore a nice looking shirt, pants and a bowtie, a difference to the stiffs who wore the same colour suits and nothing that wasn’t black, white or grey. “This is where you belong.” Fox told him as he clapped Bruce on the back, “Welcome home.”

  
They conversed for a moment before steering back to business, Fox had been more than happy to talk about whatever subject Bruce had questioned. With that, Bruce had been grateful that at least someone was nice enough to comply.

“Environmental procedures, defense projects, consumer products. All prototypes. None in production. On any level whatsoever.” 

This caught Bruce’s attention, which was usually a difficult thing to catch, much like hunting. He didn’t find Fox nearly as intimidating as he found Earle. He felt a little sorry for him, practically locked away with hardly much recognition. “None? 

Fox stared at him dead in the eye lifting an eyebrow, “What did they tell you this place was?” He couldn’t help ask, surprised by Bruce’s own surprise. 

“They didn't tell me anything.” Bruce replied with a shrug.

“Earle told me exactly what it was when he sent me down here. Dead end.“ Fox acknowledged the term, sighing sadly as he played about with something in his hands. “It’s a place to keep me from causing the board any more trouble. Come on.” He waved the younger man over.

“You were on the board?” 

“When your father ran things.”

Astonished, Bruce widened his eyes. “You knew my father?” He asked marvelling the theory.

Fox chuckled genuinely as he watched Bruce from the corner of his eye, “Oh, yeah. Helped him build his train. Here we are. Kevlar utility harness. Gas-powered, magnetic grapple gun. The 350-pound test monofilament.” Fox smiled, “Wonderful project, your dad's train. Routed it right into Wayne Tower, along with the water and power utilities. Kind of made Wayne Tower the unofficial center of Gotham City.” He paused, he glanced around hoping nobody was around to hear his opinion. “Of course, Earle let it go to rot.”

“Here we are. Nomex survival suit for advanced infantry. Kevlar biweave, reinforced joints. 

“Tear-resistant?” 

“This sucker will stop a knife.” 

“Bulletproof?”

“Anything but a straight shot.” Fox replied. 

“Why didn't they put it into production?” Bruce asked, as he made his inspection around the place.

“Bean counters didn't think a soldier's life was worth 300 grand.” Fox replied with shake of the head in disagreement, “So, what's your interest in it, Mr. Wayne?” Fox eyed him suspiciously, Bruce smiled for a short second as he questioned his brain for a good enough excuse. Going out as a vigilante, Fox would have a field day. Besides, Bruce was yet to trust him. He wasn’t the type to trust in the first introduction. He liked Fox, much more than Earle. He knew the trust would build, as the older Gentleman seemed very trustworthy source.”

“l want to borrow it. For spelunking.”

“Spelunking?” Fox echoed with disbelief, biting back a laugh.

Bruce smiled once more with his hands on his hips and chuckled. “Yeah, you know, cave diving?”

“You expecting to run into much gunfire in these caves?” Fox asked with a slight smile indicating he was amused.

“Look, l'd rather Mr. Earle didn't know about me borrowing..”

“Mr. Wayne the way l see it all this stuff is yours anyway.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't a clue what to say, but if you've read my One-Shot "That Someday That Will Never Come", it's the same OC except we get a backstory. I'll probably towards the Dark Knight part of the story delete the One-shot so I can rewrite it into a future chapter. Comment what you think because I'll need the encouragement for a longterm story y'all. You'll see me break at some point, I hate writing sad Fics but I was inspired.


End file.
